Surely we can’t dismiss all things as mere trinkets below thought and feeling…oh fuck it.
Beyond writing, beyond thought. There are some phases in life that seem harder to describe. If we are to follow that life means suffering in the Buddist Dukkha sense, then there is some life to be found in the cliched, detective stories I’ve been trying to finish, for some ill fated literary prize around the concept of a Ben Franklin quote.
Here’s a brief extract of the story that I know finishing will not achieve my ambitions:
‘The suspect, known locally as Rick, had all the facial furniture of a real hard dockworker. A kind man would have said he looked like he’d worked late for a long time, an honest man would say that he’d spent too long fortifying himself with dutch courage, just in order to slip through the purple shimmering curtains of peep-o-rama porn shows down in Boston.’
As they say: “write what you know” and all that. As someone who has had an obsession with seeking out pleasure and new experiences. I find that it’s still serving me in some new and interesting ways, but at the same time I think it’s been one of my greatest downfalls. I don’t want to be known as someone who misses out on opportunity eternally for the gratification of the immediate moment. Who just resides in the very definition of madness: doing the same thing again and again.
As the grey literally creeps into every morning, as ambition is outweighed by lack of opportunity. We can only find solace is smaller, intimate moments that have aways seemed the most real anyway. It’s like life is a vinyl record, where we can only see the groves, crackling out some good times and the bad. (Another cliche? )
Then again, there’s also the contradiction that life is for the Flaneur, life is about appreciating the aesthetic thrills, in equal measure to the spiritual quest for simplicity and meaning. You can’t just go from all the drab writing of cover letters to lying on the floor with your mantra. Even an incense stick can eventually become pungent. The truth is; buildings and trinkets can be just as thrilling and Buddhism itself, like many religions is built partly on the splendour of it’s wonderful buildings.
Sketching these potato headed things everywhere now that I eat my lunch off the original plates.
I’ve been to many wonderful places, but Bath has some rather nice ones too. Aren’t they artistic temples to the power of man…Moulded by hands instead of Gods?